David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Thank you,” he said, doing his best to hold in a denigrating remark. The lady had brought him a recent vintage of wine, no doubt the cheapest bottle in the mansion other than what was reserved for the hired help. Probably thought they were keeping Alyssa’s interests in mind since she had not asked it for him, but they should have known better. He swallowed the rest of it anyway. It might taste like piss, but at least it’d still warm his bones.

He watched the fire burn as he waited, his thoughts racing through the recent events. Alyssa needed to marry soon, and with Mark Tullen dead, Arthur had removed all serious competition. Only two wrinkles remained. One was Alyssa’s child, heir to the Gemcroft wealth, as well as a potential danger should he describe the ambush accurately enough to blame him. The other was that strange man who had attacked them. He dressed like a thief, yet none of his colors marked him with any guild. Plus there was that symbol carved in blood beside the fire. The Watcher. Arthur didn’t visit Veldaren often, but it seemed things had gotten far stranger in his absence. Not for the first time he felt thankful he lived in the north, where men had to survive by the plow, the sword, or the pick, and not by the deftness of their hand.

“Lord Hadfield,” Alyssa said, pulling him from his thoughts. He turned to her and smiled as she approached through the doorway. Her hair was immaculate, her cheeks warmed with rouge. The dark circles under her eyes were hidden with powder. Now he knew why she’d taken so long to come down. At least her clothing was appropriate for the late hour, a crimson robe tied with a yellow sash. She wrapped her arms in his and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek.

“Forgive me for ruining your sleep,” he said. “It’s a cruelty, waking someone at this hour, but I feared it’d be crueler risking someone other than myself bringing the news.”

“Enough,” Alyssa said, stepping back and holding her arms against her chest as if she were cold. “Please, whatever it is, tell me, or my mind will assume the worst.”

Arthur frowned and looked away for a moment, just long enough for her to interpret it as doubt.

“You could assume nothing worse than the truth,” he said at last. “I’m sorry, Alyssa. Your son is dead.”

She’d been expecting it, he could tell, but it didn’t matter. She took a step back as if he’d slapped her. Her mouth dropped open, and her hands quivered as she pressed them to her lips.

“No,” she whispered. Tears swelled in her eyes, then fell, smearing the powder. “No, no, please, you’re wrong, you have to be wrong…”

He shook his head. This was by far the easiest part. None of it was a lie.

“Mark Tullen came and took Nathaniel from Tyneham, where I’d brought him for tutoring. They joined one of my caravans traveling to the city. I thought they’d be safe, but someone ambushed them several days ago, no doubt hoping for the gold.”

“Mark?” Alyssa asked as she tried in vain to compose herself. “Was he…?”

Arthur wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close.

“There were no survivors,” he whispered. “They piled the bodies together and burned them.”

She fell against him and sobbed. A bit of rouge rubbed onto his vest, and he wondered whether it would come off. As her cries escalated, he tightened his grip, holding her against him. He gently rocked her side to side, his cheek resting on the top of her head. He felt unprepared for her grief, and he mentally delayed his plans of marriage. She’d need time to get over this, at least three months. Perhaps if he could bring her closure, he could progress things sooner, but how?

She asked a question, but it muffled against his chest.

“What, my love?” he asked, tilting her face with her chin. It was the first time he’d call her that, and he knew it would carry far more impact now given the circumstances.

“Who?” she asked. She sniffed and pulled free of his grip. “I want to know who.”

“I told you, someone wishing for our gold. Ruffians, most likely, come from only the gods know where.”

Alyssa shook her head. It seemed as if her skin were darkening to red, her whole body suddenly given over to rage. When she spoke again, her voice was held together by such fierce concentration he worried she had pierced his lies.

“That’s not good enough,” she said. “There has to be something, some clue, some mistake they made. They can’t make off with that much gold without others noticing. No one is that perfect, that calculated. If you know something, tell me!”

Arthur felt his opening, and it took all his willpower to keep from smiling.

“There was a…symbol,” he said, as if hesitant. “I didn’t wish to bother you with it, not when you should be grieving.”

“I have the rest of my life to grieve,” she said, wiping her makeup with her hands. “What was the symbol?”

“It was an open eye, drawn in blood. Below it was written a name, a strange name. The Watcher. I believe he is tied to the local thief guilds in some manner.”

The way she startled, he knew he’d hit his mark.

“How dare he?” she said. “He kills my son, and my…and Mark, and then dares leave his name? I’ll see him flayed before me, that heartless bastard.”

“Allow me to help in the search,” Arthur offered.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “This is my loss, and my fault. I sent Mark for him when I should have left him in safety.”

“It was my caravan, don’t forget.”

She looked at him, and he forced a mask of anger across his face. He had to seem guilty, not eager. He had to seem furious at the loss of his men, not just his gold. He did his best, and it seemed like she bought it.

“Very well,” she said. “Kill him if you must, though I’d prefer him alive.”

“Torture and vengeance shouldn’t belong to a woman so beautiful as you.”

“Then blame the world for giving me this sorrow. If the gods are kind, I’ll be the one to cut this Watcher’s throat and feel the blood spill across my hands.”

After a long pause, she asked “Did you bring…the body?”

“No,” Arthur said, shaking his head. “As I said, it was a great pyre, and we left it alone.”

“My son will not spend eternity in some common grave, his ashes trodden on by horses and oxen. You should have brought me his bones.”

She walked to the fireplace and retrieved a bell from its mantle. When she shook it, two servants came running.

“Please find quarters for Lord Hadfield,” she told them, then turned to Arthur. “I need time to rest, and I feel I would be poor company for you. Good night.”

He bowed and followed the servants. When he arrived at his room, he asked for them to fetch one of his soldiers, a man named Oric. Given such haste, there were no logs or coals in the fireplace, and the room felt only marginally warmer than the outside. He put his coat back on and sat atop the bed. His joints creaked, and he lay upon the mattress trying to will his muscles to relax. He didn’t bother to get up when the door opened and Oric stepped inside.

“You needed something?” Oric asked. He was an ugly man, thick cheeks, round jaw, and flat nose that made him look like his mother had mated with a pig. He was skilled with a blade, though, and meaner than any soldier he’d ever employed. Not a brilliant man, but he could follow events as they happened, and every now and then he’d have an insight that left Arthur pleased.

“You were a mercenary before working for me, yes?”

“Yeah, mostly for the Conningtons. Past year or so they got shy when it comes to killing thieves, so I went looking for more enjoyable work. Everyone told me to talk to you.”